


Almost Rome

by Lady_Spindle



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Fluff, Forgiveness, Implied/Referenced Period Typical Homophobia, Just mostly, M/M, Mentions of Prostitution, Mourning, Post Series, Regret, World War 2, crude language, historical events, im real sorry about this one, it's not all painful, mentions of smoking and drinking, post episode 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 17:30:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17390606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Spindle/pseuds/Lady_Spindle
Summary: “Oy Marte, you’re a good looking guy, surely you’ve got some beautiful dame waiting for you back home.”Nero looks up.  Angelo’s face surfaces in his mind, casting him a rare smile as they shared a cigarette on the roof of some building, the sun setting in the background caressing everything in a soft golden glow…He sighs deeply, “the most beautiful.”From the beach to the front, Nero reflects on his life during World War 2.





	Almost Rome

**Author's Note:**

> My waking brain told me not to think about the general shittiness of the 1900s in regards to Avilero so instead my sleeping brain gifted me with this fic in dream form. @my brain thanks a bunch :/ 
> 
> Loosely based around actual events from World War 2, in so much as I could glean from a cursory glance at Wikipedia.

June 4th, 1944, the United States Fifth Army retook Rome, the first Allied re-taking of a capital in Europe in the Second World War 

Nero would not live to see Rome.

He is deployed to Europe with the rest of the Fifth Army under the command of Lieutenant General Mark Clark July 10th 1943 in a multifaceted attack known as “Operation Husky”.

When he was a boy, Nero’s father would tell him about the beautiful countryside he grew up exploring in Savona, Italy.  Nothing in America could truly compare to his hometown on the island of Sicily.  Young Nero’s eyes would grow wide as he described the architectural marvels, the temperate sea breezes, and the sweeping mountains.  He spoke often of the play house in Milan, _La Scala_ , after which his own play house was designed.

Now, he marches through a ravaged countryside, makes camp with his fellow soldiers in the bombed out husks of villages, houses like broken-open shells dotting the hillsides.  He wonders, after his father went through so many trials to escape Italy, what he would think of his only surviving son returning there.  And the circumstances through which he returned.

_July 24 th, 1943_

Camping out in a deserted village has a few perks, mainly not having to sleep on the cold, wet ground.  Sometimes, provisions have been left behind, extra ammo, extra socks.  As Nero lies on his bedroll, looking up through shattered holes in the roof, he always wonders if the people who lived there escaped before the firebombs came down.  These villages always reek of death, indistinguishable from the stench of death pervading the army. 

_July 30 th, 1943_

Nero sits around a campfire with a few of his comrades.  He rarely speaks to anyone, but these four seem to have taken him in. 

“I used to talk more,” he’d explained once, the last time they’d found some piss-watered alcohol.

“What changed?” one asked.

“A lot of things,” he’d managed, staring too long and too hard at the ground for comfort.

Now the men joke amicably. One hands out paper-rolled cigarettes filled with whatever shit they thought might burn pleasantly.  Nero waits for a couple to try them, with disgruntled results, before declining. 

He’d been smoking since he was fourteen, the mentality that if he was old enough to kill, he was old enough to smoke. In the mafia he’d smoked often, the fancy cigars his father had imported.  If he went too long without, his hands would shake, affecting his ability to shoot.  Now a cigarette, a real one, every few weeks is enough to sustain him. The farther inland they get the more scarce the cigarettes become.

His companions have switched subjects from the terrible cigarettes to talking about their wives or girlfriends, or in general what sort of woman they’d fancy.

“I’m just saying, if she don’t got tits on her, what’s the point?” One quips, making lewd illustrative gestures with his hands.

Another interrupts him, dragging Nero into the conversation.

“Oy Marte, you’re a good looking guy, surely you’ve got some beautiful dame waiting for you back home.”

Nero looks up.  Angelo’s face surfaces in his mind, casting him a rare smile as they shared a cigarette on the roof of some building, the sun setting in the background caressing everything in a soft golden glow…

He sighs deeply, “the most beautiful.”

The oldest in the group shakes his head appreciatively, no doubt thinking of his long-married wife, “count yourself lucky, it’s a rare thing in this world we live in, to love and be loved.”

“Or to screw and be screwed,” lewd one interjects.

They begin to argue, allowing Nero to slip away again. He’d done it again, thought of Angelo.  It seems not even an ocean’s distance and over a decade of time will stop his thoughts from straying away and circling back to Angelo.  Always him.

_August 5 th, 1943_

“Damn Clark’s gonna get us all killed,” one man growls, after a particularly brutal battle.  One of Nero’s unwitting group of acquaintances had been wounded, enough to be sent home.

“They’ll probably give him a medal of honor, look how much progress into Italy he’s made.  The higher ups don’t give a shit about us grunts, it’s all about numbers and results,” another, the oldest one shakes his head. 

They watch their comrade be carried away on a gurney.

“He’ll never walk on that leg again.”

“Would you rather be short a leg and home, or here?” Another argues.

Nero tunes them out again as they reorder and continue marching.  The battle cleared out a path to a small town overtaken by Axis powers. 

Their unit is divided into smaller groups in order to make multiple attacks from different angles.  The British Eighth army flanks them.

In line with his comrades’ grumbling of Clark’s ineptitudes, though the battle that ensues over the course of the next day to liberate the village ultimately succeeds, it is through no help of their commander. The armies were supposed to work together, but Nero has the distinct impression Clark ignores his British counterpart and doesn’t share his plans of action either.

It is of no matter for the evening however, the town is liberated, and the remaining villagers pool their resources to have a sort of celebration.  The town tavern has all its chairs and tables pushed to one side to open the dancing floor wide.

One of Nero’s more crass acquaintances looks over the handful of young Italian women edging the dance floor, their hair let down for the first time since their town had been overtaken, in their Sunday best.  He mutters something to the effect of “getting as many dames as he can before the night is over.”

Nero waits on the sidelines, having a singular drink. A couple girls look like they might approach him, shy and reserved.  He wonders if they’re interested in him because of his heritage, he’s not far from his Father’s hometown, or his looks.  In his youth, Nero had been considered handsome and he knew it.  Now…

When he’d joined the army his hair had been longer and more unkempt than it had ever been, then everything had been buzzed short, including his goatee.  Now with a harsh ration on razors, he’s becoming scruffy, a beard growing in patchy, hair due for a trim.

He excuses himself outside for a cigarette – a real one he’d bought off one of the villagers. It’s worth every choking breath of smoke.

Through the wall, he can hear the muffled voice of someone singing in French.

He should go back in and dance, it might be his last time to do so.

 _If I survive this_ , Nero tells himself, _I’ll go back and try to do better by myself_.

If he survives he’ll be something of a war hero, he’ll get a modest job, find himself a nice girl, start a family, like he ought to.

He would take her to dances like this, twirl her close and sway to the beat.  Nero tries to imagine this woman often, slim build, long dark hair, gold eyes –

No matter how hard he tries, Angelo’s is the face that surfaces in his mind when he imagines a dance partner.

Would he be graceful?  Nero thinks so. Lithe and elegant on the dance floor.

Outside the tavern he sits against the building wall, stubbing out his cigarette in the dirt. Angelo wouldn’t want to dance probably, but he might stay by Nero like this, outside the bustle of the dancefloor.  If he were lucky, the younger man would lean against his shoulder and they’d remain together in companionable silence.

But he can’t have that, can never have that.

When the festivities die down, the soldiers bed down where they find space, spare rooms and the floor of the tavern, mainly.

Going to sleep on a full stomach, with a happy buzz of alcohol in her veins has Nero resting easier than he has for months.

Angelo visits him often in his dreams, never saying anything.  Nero didn’t realize how much he missed him until he appeared for the first time in his subconscious mind. Dream Angelo had reached forward and touched his cheek, expression unreadable, his face already blurred and unfocused.  The details have begun to fade, but Nero knows he’d be able to pick out Angelo’s face in any crowd.  It took too long for him to realize how much he missed his friend, and longer yet to figure out that “friend” didn’t cover how he felt about Angelo.

The first time he’d woken up with the evidence of his perversion he’d been disgusted.

Then it seemed fitting, that he would only love someone he couldn’t have.

Now the brief, dream filtered memory of Angelo is enough to sustain him.  He can’t truly be horrible if happiness is all he desires.

Maybe if he survives he’ll go back and –

_Some time ago…_

By the fourth or fifth time he’s woken up by police officers, hungover, having crawled under a dock or overpass or the side of the road, and told to beat it, he realizes no one is coming for him. His whole life, being at the center of a mafia family, Nero had always been surrounded by people, his siblings, other mafia members.  Now he is truly alone.

 _Angelo made sure of that_ , he thinks bitterly.

Nero is not cut out for a life of poverty.  He finds work when he can, attempts pickpocketing when he doesn’t.  Mostly he just goes hungry.  Angelo knew how to live this life, not ideal but enough to survive.  Nero wishes Angelo was with him, it might make all of this so much more bearable…

The moment the army begins advertising, a decade after Nero drove away from the beach, he joins.  Three square meals a day, a place to sleep, and a roof over his head is more than he’s had in months.

Nero sees himself in the mirror before the army cuts his hair, and he jumps, barely recognizing himself.  Somewhere along the line he’d grown old and haggard.  He doesn’t look like himself with scraggly long hair, purple bays under his eyes and sunken cheeks.  They take the full beard off, then the hair. His reflection doesn’t look like him, and it’s alright, Nero hasn’t wanted to be himself in years.

 _October 20 th_, _1943_

After taking Salerno, they’re told that the retaking of Rome is nigh. Nero isn’t convinced, no one is.  At the pace they travel, through icy, unforgiving mountains and Axis outposts, Nero is going to be an old man before he sees Rome.

Rations and morale run low, of Nero’s group of acquaintances, the eldest falls ill and passes away from pneumonia.  He finds himself envying him.

The two remaining acquaintances huddle around a small fire with Nero on a particularly cold night.

“Bet you wish you had that woman of yours to keep you warm tonight,” the lewd one grumbles, stoking the fire.

“Me,” he continues, “I’d be happy with just about any old sow these days.”

“Why didn’t you check the last field we marched through,” the other supplies, “thought I saw some pigs that might suit your fancy.”

Like a well-worn routine, the two squabble and Nero drifts away.  They are choked with mourning, but know no better way to cope than to lash out at one another.  It’s pitiful.

As for Nero, he does wish he were home in some imaginary world where Angelo would warm his bed each night, curled comfortably at his side.  They would hold hands, fingers loosely entwined, and the physical closeness would fill the void of companionship in Nero, instead of letting it continue to gape raw and festering as it had for so, so long now.

 _Even if you could have him,_ he reminds himself, _he would never want you, not after all you’ve done…_

Angry, Nero accepts one of the piss poor excuses of cigarettes the men are smoking and huffs in lungfuls of acrid, nasty smoke. There’s not enough real tobacco in it to offer him any sort of relief.

_Some time ago…_

He hits a point where the loneliness is unbearable, the need to be close to someone – anyone – overriding his better judgement. Finding a woman is out of the question.  His personal revelation about Angelo is enough to force him to reconsider his attraction to the opposite sex. Whatever fleeting attraction he might have once had, fades.

By word of mouth he hears of a special whorehouse, one for more…unusual tastes. The resident pimp deals in boys, not women, though for a rather outrageous price.

Despite this, Nero finds himself sitting at the edge of a filthy, unstable bed in one of the rooms of the whorehouse. Between his hands he rolls a stack of bills, the majority of his pay from the last month and the rest of his scraped together savings.  He waits.  He’d asked for someone with dark hair, because then maybe, just for a night, he could pretend.

The door swings open and he inadvertently jumps.  The boy isn’t at all what he’d expected.  Dark hair, yes, but a darker complexion, dark brown eyes.  He wears a corset and half a petticoat, cheeks rouged and eyes lined with kohl, lips bright red, smudged from likely another customer. On top of that, he’s a child, Nero places him between twelve and fifteen.

“Did I keep you waiting?” He asks, voice pitched to a falsetto, placing a clammy hand on the threadbare knee of Nero’s trousers.

Nero stands abruptly, startling the boy.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers, “I’ve made a mistake.”

He fumbles for his overcoat, breathing hard.  He can’t do this, this is a _child_ , dressed like a woman to fulfil someone’s _fantasy_. This isn’t Angelo, and he can’t – won’t – settle.

“Did I do something wrong?” The boy asks, voice normal, eyes wide with fear.

Nero instantly feels the need to comfort him, “you didn’t, it’s me, it’s…I changed my mind.”

Without thinking, he presses the money into the boy’s hands; he doesn’t want to get him in trouble with the pimp for failing to reel in a customer.  He really shouldn’t give him the money, it’s all he has.  But Nero does it anyways and flees from the whorehouse as fast as he can, feeling disgusted with himself.  He doesn’t have money enough for a drink so he wanders aimlessly, stuck with the cloying feeling that somehow he’d soiled his memories of Angelo by simply considering a substitute.

He wanders until bone-deep exhaustion overtakes him.  Perhaps he would dream of Angelo, the same warm, blurred out vision he always had. Tonight, he doesn’t deserve it.

In the morning it’s the fourth or fifth time he’s woken up by police officers by the side of the road.

No one is coming for him.

He joins the army in 1940 when the peacetime draft begins.  It’s three square meals a day, a place to sleep, and a roof over his head.

_December 29 th, 1943_

Nero successfully snipes a good dozen people down in the next battle.  Their previous sniper had been killed, so Nero stepped up as a permanent substitute.

“I think I finally believe him when he says he used to be in that mafia business,” someone comments afterwards. 

They camp in a deserted town, but the soldiers found a couple barrels of hard liquor in someone’s cellar, so everyone is in good spirits.

Nero cleans his rifle methodically, largely ignoring the mafia comments.

“Did you ever have to kill someone?” a young soldier asks.

“Yes,” Nero answers, “a traitor.”

“You just took him out back and _pow!_ Shot him?”

“It was on a beach, but yes.  Shot him dead and walked away,” Nero explains, snapping the last part into place, a horrible feeling tugs the back of his throat, narrowing his airway.

He wishes it had been that simple.

Gun trained on Angelo, anger and hate filling his throat, Nero had squeezed his eyes shut. Seven years ago a single bullet would have saved him irreparable loss. Now he has a second shot.

He pulls the trigger and prays for absolution.

The bullet strikes Angelo between the shoulder blades, exiting between his ribs.  He drops, bright red blooming against the stark white fabric of his shirt.

Regret hits him almost instantly.  Nero feels his gun slip through trembling fingers, he stumbles through the shifting sand, falling to his knees beside Angelo.

A pool of blood is already forming around him when Nero turns him over, cradling him in his arms. Angelo’s eyes are wide and wild, mouth open to drag in choking breaths, blood and spit gurgling and spilling out the side of his mouth. Nero presses a hand to the gaping wound in his back, desperate to stop the bleeding. Hot spurts of blood pulse around his fingers as he presses his other hand over the exit wound. One of Angelo’s hands reaches up to loosely grip the lapel of Nero’s vest. He shudders and convulses, breathing hoarse and irregular.

Through sheets of white hot panic Nero hears himself speaking, voice choked and drawn.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry-” he’s vaguely aware of tears rolling down his cheeks, dripping onto Angelo’s face.

He wants him to say something, anything, curse him, forgive him –

Angelo says nothing. In this moment he’s not the cunning, cruel monster who’d taken apart Nero’s family, deceived and lied to him.  He is just a terrified boy who doesn’t want to die.

“Avili – Angelo…please…” he begs.

The blood runs slower now, Angelo’s shirt is saturated, Nero’s sleeves and pant legs as well. His whole body convulses, curling in on itself. 

He squeezes the younger man tight as each wheezing breath becomes a slow, agonizing chore. Angelo trembles, weakly.

A ragged sound tears from his throat, a final gasp of breath, and he’s silent. Nero sobs, clutching his limp body close, face pressed against his soft hair.  He feels the hand that held his lapel slip away.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Nero whimpers.

He holds Angelo to his chest long after he begins to grow cold.  When the sun sinks, Nero raises his head, and takes in the empty husk that had once been his friend. His eyes are dull and half open, Nero has missed his chance to close them.  Stifling down another bout of sobs, he takes a soiled sleeve cuff and gently wipes away the congealing blood at the corner of his mouth. Waves lap around them, drawing away the bloodied stains in the sand into the sea.

“I’m so sorry,” he croaks. 

Mustering what little is left of his resolve, Nero lifts Angelo and carries him towards a rocky outcropping, slogging steps through the wet sand, their footsteps long since subsumed by the ocean.

From loose blocks of sandstone, Nero builds him a tomb.  He lays Angelo down on a shelf of rock, situating him the best he can.  Digging through stones until his fingertips are raw and bleeding, Nero buries him in walls of stone.

It is nightfall by the time he finishes, placing a hand flat against the structure.

“I’ll come back to visit you,” he vows.  Maybe he could find a way to transport Angelo back to Lawless, have him placed in a proper grave by the rest of his family.  He deserves a real burial.

Nero would never return to the beach. One of many broken promises and regrets.

The first seedy town he finds he goes to a back alley to trade his clothes.  For the value of fine, imported, Italian silk, he gets very little and doesn’t care.  The buyers know quality cloth when they see it, and they don’t question the faint pink remains of bloodstains.

He flees the Galassias for the better part of three years until they finally give up on him or go bankrupt, he doesn’t care to know.  Everything is harder now, alone. The economy is shot, work and food are scarce.

Eventually he sells his car, and it feels like he’s losing a part of himself.  In that car he and Angelo had shared their final road trip.

He hangs on to the can of pineapples for months, stubbornly avoiding it even on days when he went hungry.

But eventually he caves and consumes it. Food is precious, not even sentiment can justify his unwillingness to eat it.

With each piece sold or consumed, he feels like he’s losing a part of himself.  When his family died, it felt like a part of him died with them.  It seems Angelo had overtaken whatever parts of him were still alive, and now with each passing day it slips away, slowly draining him of any life he may have had.  

Nero had always been surrounded by people.  Then he lost everyone.  Angelo made sure of that.

Then Nero had taken Angelo.

Now he is truly alone.

If only he could have known then, so full of rage, anger, and regret, thinking that he could make up for all the hurt with a single bullet.

As a child, he hadn’t had the strength to pull the trigger, now, he realizes, he should have found the strength _not_ to pull the trigger.

_January 9 th, 1944_

They would call it the Battle of Monte Cassino, four costly battles to retake Rome. Perhaps in the future they would look at the number of casualties and think them justified; loss of life to prevent even more loss of life.

For Nero, it’s watching the men he’d fought beside fall ill and fall down, while it takes every last bit of his strength to keep putting one foot in front of the other.  It’s a feeling of intense sorrow paired with relief that perhaps if their numbers continue to fall, the rations won’t be stretched so thin.

Clark is convinced they’ll reach the Gustav Line, the place where the Fifth Army will convene with other Allied forces in mere days. For once, it is entirely possible.

Until an Axis air raid comes in the night.  Somewhere along the line, an intelligence officer had been shot down, leaking valuable information to Axis forces.  They know exactly where to strike.

The first explosion occurs on the far side of camp, giving Nero enough time to scramble to his feet, pull on boots and a jacket, and rush in to help. Everyone is in a state of panic, sergeants bark orders to deaf ears.  Nero dodges around shrapnel and burning tents, guiding smoke choked soldiers from the rubble, throwing his jacket down on others, crawling on their stomachs as flames lick over them. Closer to the epicenter of the bomb, the fires grow too intense.  Half dead figures stumble and writhe, consumed by flames or riddled with shrapnel. He turns back to help escort the survivors when another charge deploys, much closer.  Steeling himself, he rushes to the scene.  By the third or fourth charge, he can’t hear anything, sound replaced by a faint ringing.  It’s better, without barking sergeants and screaming, half-dead bodies. 

Nero has seen truly horrible things at war, but this ranks high as one of the worst.

When a charge detonates less than a hundred yards from him, the force of explosion crumbles the ground beneath this feet and tosses him through space. He lands hard on his back, wind knocked from smoke-choked lungs.  Looking up at the night sky, he can see the Axis planes flying away. Black dots swirl at the edges of his vision, and he lets them encroach, fires dance in the narrowing tunnel of his vision, nothing but a faint ringing in his ears.

 

* * *

 

It must be hours later when Nero’s eyes flutter open, sky painted with the faint pastels of dawn.  Out of the corners of his eyes, he can see the bodies of his comrades dotting the campsite.  Fires that raged the night before sputter and smolder, it must have down poured in the early hours of the morning.  As sensation returns to Nero, he catalogues that he is cold and uncomfortably soaked, his head hurts and he’s afraid to try to move anything else.

Panic rises in his throat like bile as he becomes aware that someone is approaching him. He sucks in a breath and prepares to move when a voice halts him.

“Don’t be alarmed, it’s just me.”

Nero freezes then, because he would never, could never, forget that golden voice.

Looking wildly to the side, he sees Angelo kneel beside him, dressed as he always had, collared shirt, slacks, and suspenders.

“This isn’t possible,” his voice is airy and weak.

“But here I am,” Angelo says, matter of fact.  He gently slides an arm under Nero’s neck and shoulders and positions Nero so his head can rest comfortably against Angelo’s thigh.

“I’m in pretty bad shape aren’t I?” Nero coughs, finding that he strains for each word.

Angelo says nothing, beginning to card his fingers through Nero’s dirty, mud and sweat-soaked hair.  The steady drag of his fingertips across his scalp is proof enough that Angelo is something visceral and real. His pain-addled brain can’t be bothered to rationalize too hard, he’s spent too long alone and miserable to push away this comfort.

“Every battle has been horrible…but I don’t think I’m gonna walk away from this one,” Nero manages, fragmented trains of thought circling back enough to form words.

A warm hand sliding across his cheek causes him to open eyes he hadn’t noticed fluttering closed.  Angelo leans over him, eyes intense.

“Nero. You are going to walk away from this.”

He hums, Angelo always knew better than him anyways. Besides, he’s preoccupied; nuzzling Angelo’s palm.

“Do you have any regrets?” Angelo asks, sounding distant.

“Can my whole life be a regret?” Nero asks, laugh turning into a heaving cough.

“Surely it wasn’t all bad,” he scoffs, the hand that rests on Nero’s cheek slips away, reconnecting when he takes ahold of one of Nero’s hand, folded against his chest.  Angelo has been holding his other hand this whole time, he only notices now.

He grips Nero’s hands tight, or perhaps Nero is barely gripping at all.

“No, not all bad,” he sighs finally.  He has fond childhood memories with his siblings, Vanno, his uncle and mother. Fond memories of Angelo before the illusion shattered.

“Some of the best were with you,” he admits.

“Oh,” Angelo looks startled, he seems to glow at the words.

The first sunrays creep over the horizon, so bright they almost seem to shine through Angelo.

“You’re not mad at me?” Nero wheezes. It’s getting so hard to think… “I shot you…”

“Why should I be? I thought I wanted to die.  You’re the one who has suffered over and over for your actions.  Besides,” he smooths the hair away from Nero’s forehead, “I’ve forgiven you.  You should forgive yourself too.”

“Little late, isn’t it?” He croaks.

“Never too late,” Angelo soothes. 

Nero starts to drift again as long moments of silence separate them. He jolts suddenly.

“One other regret,” he gasps, fighting to concentrate, “that I never kissed you when you were alive. I always wanted to.”

“I know,” Angelo smiles, just the slightest upturn of his lips, “you’re not exactly subtle.”

Nero thinks he feels adequately chagrined for a blunder sixteen years ago, “would you have pushed me away?”

Still smiling, Angelo leans down, bestowing a light kiss to Nero’s lips, lingering just long enough to make his answer abundantly clear.

“It wasn’t easy to accept at first,” he says, the distant sound returning to his voice.  He seems to stare far, far away, “but I reached a point where killing you didn’t matter anymore.  I didn’t need to get as close as I had, and soon enough…I found myself wishing we could have met under different circumstances.”

“It took me way too long to figure out I’d fallen for you,” Nero’s voice is reedy and weak, but he manages.

“I suppose we’re both fools in that respect,” Angelo laughs weakly.

Nero feels his vision blur over, despite how stubbornly he tries to keep them open, tries to drink in every last detail of Angelo’s face, hating that he’d forgotten for even a second.

“I’m tired,” he mumbles, “can I rest a bit?  I want to keep talking to you.  I’m just so tired, Angelo…”

He shushes him gently, “Rest.  I’ll be here.”

Gratefully, Nero lets his eyes slide shut, focused on the warmth of Angelo’s hand in his, against his cheek, the warmth of his lap.  It’s perfect.

An indeterminate amount of time later, Nero’s eyes pop open.  True to his word, Angelo remains beside him, absentmindedly tracing patterns over the palm of his hand.

He shifts around slightly, “Actually…I feel a lot better now.  I think I just needed to rest a bit.”

“Alright,” Angelo stays still as Nero draws himself to a sitting position. He stands, helping to pull Nero to his feet.

***

By dawn, reports of the attack have been relayed, and search parties are deployed to seek out survivors.  They are met with a massacre.

***

He feels lighter than he’s felt in years.  Nero rolls his shoulders, adjusting his sleeves.  Startled, he notices the sleeves are not his standard issue military uniform, but the maroon suitcoat he’d favored years ago.

“We should get going,” Angelo says, touching his elbow.

“Right,” Nero shakes his head, “I should report to a search party, they’ll be looking for me…”

***

The search party begins an arduous task of checking dog tags, digging out survivors.  They won’t reach Nero’s part of the camp for several hours.

***

“Lemme just grab my rifle and bags,” Nero says but Angelo stops him.

“You won’t be needing them.”

“Are you kidding? I’ll be in big trouble if I leave behind weapons and ammo,” Nero turns around to grab them, freezing instantly.

The bombs, the suit, and Angelo…

Realization dawns on him like fog dissipating before the sun.

“You won’t be needing them,” Angelo repeats, lacing his fingers with Nero’s.

***

The search party marks down his name and rank.

“Strange,” one soldier mentions, “it looks like he died smiling.”

***

“Where are we going?” Nero asks, walking fast to keep up with Angelo.  The scenery around them seems to warp from the battle-ravaged mountains of Italy, to a quiet rural lot.  He blinks and tries to take it all in.  Now they stand at the doorway of a house.

“We’re here,” Angelo hesitates, hand on the doorknob. He seems uncertain, unwilling to make eye contact with Nero.

“What is this place?” Nero breathes.  Realistically, he should be feeling more concern, but he can’t.  The scenery is peaceful, the house is familiar.  Angelo is with him and he’s made the decision to trust him.

Angelo exhales, “It’s ours.” He finally turns around to face Nero.

He takes another good long look at the house, realizing slowly that it looks like a blend of his and Angelo’s childhood homes.

His train of thought breaks when Angelo’s arms slip around his waist and he presses close, head resting against Nero’s chest.

“You said it took you too long to realize about me?  I showed up here and couldn’t figure out for the longest time why it felt incomplete. Then one day it just clicked: I was waiting for someone,” he looks up at Nero, chin resting against his sternum, “I knew it had to be you.”

Nero feels his throat constrict. He hasn’t cried in years, not since the beach, as though all his tears had been wrung dry. But he could now.  Instead, Nero buries his face in Angelo’s shoulder and takes deep, steadying breaths.

From inside the house, he can hear voices conversing.

“Who’s inside?” He asks, suspicious.

“Guests, people who want to see you,” he sighs, “but I insisted on going to get you,” his arms tighten a fraction, “so I could keep you to myself for a while.”

A soft laugh escape his lips. It doesn’t seem real, but from inside he can hear Vanno speaking, the sound of his mother’s laugh.

Nero cups Angelo’s chin and ducks in for a swift kiss, leaving the younger man frozen for a moment.

“Let’s get going then,” Nero loops an arm around Angelo’s waist, reaching for the handle.

Angelo’s face is flushed, and Nero knows his likely matches.  He thinks he hears him mutter something akin to “fine but they’re leaving by nine.”

***

Marte Clemente is listed as _deceased_ in the next batch of printed papers, tiny exhaustive print to accommodate the sheer number of casualties.

Four months later the Allied forces would take Rome.

Nero doesn’t mind that he never sees it.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> There are two scenarios where I would accept Nero shooting Angelo and this is one of them.  
> I listened to this [ song ](http://oho-seijou.tumblr.com/post/166483889448/fromanotherroom-la-vie-en-rose-playing-from) on loop while writing (Disregarding that it was released in 1945)
> 
> I was going to make this super sad at the end but decided…no.
> 
> Aaand side note, school starts up again on Monday, so I won't have nearly as much time to write. It is still a goal of mine to write as often as I can...but I won't be prolific by any means.


End file.
